


Anything Wrong, We Can Fix

by o666666



Series: Post-series [2]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Post-Episode: s11e10 My Struggle IV, Post-Season/Series 11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22792378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o666666/pseuds/o666666
Summary: Jackson comes home drunk.
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Series: Post-series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638604
Comments: 1
Kudos: 35





	Anything Wrong, We Can Fix

Scully is pouring herself a cup of water from the BRITA when Jackson opens the back door and stumbles into the kitchen, Daggoo at his heels. 

“Hey,” he mumbles, “Whassssup?” 

The dog sits down between them.

She looks at the clock. It’s past one AM. “It’s late,” she appraises, as if she did not know prior to checking the time exactly how late it was. She takes a sip from her glass. “Where were you?”

Jackson leans on the counter, fake cool. Runs a hand through his long hair. “I dunno,” he says. He smells like alcohol. “Jus’ a… hangin’ out, somewhere.” He burps, and grins. He is sheepish like Mulder.

“With the dog?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says, “… brought the dog. S’a good guy.” He smiles down at Daggoo and she is afraid that he’ll tilt off his balance and hit the floor.

“You’re drunk,” she says. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Why’re you up?” 

“Why am I up?” she asks him, losing her cool, suddenly incredulous. “Why am I _up_? Jackson, your sister wakes up to eat at one o’clock every morning. And again at three. And my eighteen year-old son sees fit to come and go as he pleases, as late or as early as he pleases, so here I am. _Up_. Waiting for him to return, wondering if he will, waiting for your sister to need something. And tomorrow, I will do it all again.”

“No you won’t,” he says, tipping over. “Not ‘nymore. M’leaving.” 

She grabs onto his arm and steadies him. “Excuse me?” Her voice is tight. He’s _leaving_? Leaving them _now_ , _again_? _No_ , she thinks, _No no no_. “Jackson, listen to me—”

“M’LEAVING,” Jackson snaps, louder, jerking away. “Don’ touch me.”

She reaches for him.

“ _I said no_!” he cries, and when he looks at her, it’s with wild, searching eyes.

“Jackson,” she breathes, cornering him at the kitchen table. She pulls out a chair for him and pushes him into it, two hands on his shoulders. He collapses with a sigh, and puts his head down on his arms like a tired child. 

“I don’ wanna talk to you,” he says. Upstairs, the baby cries. “Gracie needs you.”

“Your father will get her.” Scully leaves no room for argument. She sits down next to him and puts a hand on his back. Mulder, who has been eavesdropping on the back staircase, clomps upstairs. 

“You are not leaving us, Jackson,” Scully says, recomposed. 

She is in denial, perhaps; she could not cope if he left them again. For months, after the pier, after she felt him alive, she had tried to respect his distance. It had killed her every minute. 

What kind of mother was she to know her child was out there—hungry, cold, alone, in danger—and do nothing? 

Who was she to go on without him? 

Who was she to carry Grace if she had not done right by her son? 

Her pregnancy had been terrible. She and Mulder had tried out words like _prenatal depression_ and _post-traumatic stress_. And then, in the middle of her second trimester, Jackson had returned. He’d looked so unsure—so much like Mulder—standing in the front yard, staring at the door, backpack hanging off one shoulder. She’d seen him through the window and gasped. They’d locked eyes, and then she was running to the porch, down the steps, into his arms. Crying, crying so hard. 

She didn’t raise this boy, but she knew him. Her whole heart knew him. Her muscles remembered him. 

He’d wrapped his arms around her, tentatively, and she’d rocked him, _My baby, oh my God, oh God_ , touching his hair, his cheeks, _I’ve missed you so much, I missed you so much every day._

And they have been friends. They have been bonding. He loves the dog, and she spoils him rotten, and he and Mulder theorize about that Instagram model in New York who may or may not be AI-powered CGI. 

But since Grace’s birth, he has gone quiet. He’s spent more time in his room. His walks with Daggoo are longer and longer. He leaves before dinner and comes home late, and he seems wary of the baby. 

And now, he is drunk at her kitchen table. Lovely. 

“Jackson.” She pets his hair. “You need to talk to me.” 

“Don’ touch me.” He does not lift his head.

“Or you need to talk to Mulder. But you cannot keep doing this.” She is sympathetic, but she brooks no bullshit.

“M’going tomorrow and m’not coming back,” he says, but his voice breaks. 

_Don’t cry_ , she tells herself, _don’t you dare cry_ , but her eyes fill. “Jackson honey,” she whispers, “why?” 

“I don’ feel good,” he moans, and when he looks up at her, his eyes are teary. He looks like a little boy. Her little boy, her baby. She cups his cheek in her hand, and he winces into her palm. 

Then he pukes.

“ _Oh_ , honey…” 

Jackson groans in horror, and covers his face with his hands. He shoulders hitch, and she takes a deep breath. “Jackson,” she says, pulling his hands away. She gets up, gets the dish rag, wets it. She runs it over his face, and he squirms away. “Come on. Upstairs with you— _Mulder!_ ”

A moment later, Mulder appears. “Baby’s in her crib,” he tells Scully, slinging one of Jackson’s arms over his shoulder and standing him up. Scully follows the pair of them up the stairs—Jackson moaning and groaning, Mulder trying not to break a sweat. 

He deposits Jackson gently on the bathroom floor and flips up the toilet seat, just in case. “Getting too old for this, kid,” he says, and sits down down on the lip of the tub. 

Scully leans against the sink. “How much have you had to drink?” 

Jackson doesn’t answer. “Why’re you doing this?” he asks. His face is red and tear-tracked, and he sounds so tired.

She crouches next to him. Mulder gives her a look: _Don’t go too easy_. Surprisingly—to everyone—Mulder is good at playing their son’s Bad Cop. 

“Jackson.” She touches his arm. 

“Stop bein’ nice to me.” Jackson wraps his arms around his knees. “I can’t be here.” 

“ _Yes you can_ ,” she implores, panicked. She takes his hands. “What are you talking about? _Look at me_.” 

He closes his eyes. “M’not right,” he tells her, “In the head. All wrong. All the time.” 

_No_ , she thinks, _You have to be okay. You have to be okay_. 

“Jackson,” she argues, “whatever you’re feeling, whatever you are going through, we are your family, okay? We are in this together. I’m _here_.” She feels so guilty.

Mulder watches, their silent sentry.

“Gracie needs you,” Jackson says. He wipes his eyes roughly. 

“ _We_ need you,” she tells him. “We need you right here.” She presses her hands to her heart. “I just got you back, Jackson, and I need you _right here_.” Shit. She’s crying. 

“Honey—” Mulder starts, touching her shoulder, but Jackson interrupts him.

“I don’ know what to do,” he whispers. “I feel bad all the time.” 

“Oh, baby…” She pulls him to her, and he cries into her shoulder. 

“… not good for you guys,” he cries. “… never feel happy. Gracie needs better. … wish I was diff’rent.” 

“Shh…” she strokes his hair. “We want you just as you are, baby.” She pulls away, looks into his eyes. “We have always wanted you just as you are.” She pushes the hair from his sweaty forehead. He is breathing hard. 

“Jack,” Mulder says. “I know you feel like you have to spare everyone from you, to pull away to protect the people who love you from getting hurt. But that’s not how this works, buddy.” He joins them on the floor and palms protective circles on each of their backs. 

“It is not your job to protect us, Jackson,” Scully tells him, holding him fiercely. It is _our_ job to protect this family. You are not going anywhere.” She squeezes him tight, sniffs. “You can only go if you’re coming back.” 

“Don’ cry,” Jackson soothes her, quietly. “M’reeeeally sorry I’m drunk.” 

“Shh,” she tells him. 

“Won’t do it again.”

“I know.”

“I’ll be good,” he promises. 

Mulder clears his throat, dislodging the lump. “You’re always good, buddy.”

“We have all been through so much,” Scully says. “Through so much trauma, and suffering. And now we are all together, and we have… such an amazing chance.” She looks in Jackson’s eyes. “I _never_ thought I would get this, do you understand? I never thought I would have you with me again, and it is the greatest gift of my life. Anything wrong, we can fix, okay?” she begs him. “Anything wrong we can fix.”

“Okay,” Jackson says, nodding urgently. “Okay.” 

They hold him tight. “We love you so much.” 

“I know.” 

“Always,” Scully says. 

“Look at her,” Mulder tells his son. “She’s covered in your puke, hugging you like that.”

Jackson sniffles, huffs a laugh. “I love you guys too.” He squeezes Scully a little extra, then extricates his arms, looks down at himself. “Can I get in the shower?”


End file.
